


A Promise Made is a Promise Kept

by mia6363



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Knotting, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Self-Esteem Issues, ambiguous time period, off-screen violence, self-destructive thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-15 21:02:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8072626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mia6363/pseuds/mia6363
Summary: When Stiles turned seven his mother got him a globe for his room. Stiles remembered that globe more than the rest of his house. His mother would spin it, guiding his finger against its side and when it stopped she’d read about whatever region it landed on.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Malapropian](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Malapropian/gifts).



Nerves were always wire-thin the morning of an impending arrival to the Beacon. Stiles sat on the brick pillar post and tapped his gloved fingers against the cement. Lydia leaned against the fence, her arms crossed and her expression tight. Erica shoved a bowl of porridge into Stiles’s hands. 

“Eat.”

Stiles shook his head. 

“I’m not hungry.”

Erica pushed harder but took care to never let her hands slip and come into contact with Stiles. He took it with a smile, which Erica returned. Stiles swallowed two spoonfuls before he passed it to Lydia. 

The sky was grey and the surrounding forest was silent. The crunch of wheels on gravel made Erica perk up and soon the car rounded the bend as headlights illuminated them. Stiles shuddered at the kind of picture they made. Two Omegas in wait with their Beta guard and the looming stone Conservatory and Archives behind them. With the silent countryside adding to their isolation, Stiles wasn’t surprised that their new Promised stepped out of the car struggling to hide his tears in his sleeve. 

Stiles had been the same way on his first day.

“All right,” Finstock lurched out of the car. “Everyone, say hell to Isaac. Isaac, welcome to the Beacon.” Isaac, who had a full head of curly hair that would be gone in a couple of hours, sniffed and bit his lips to keep them from trembling. Finstock bellowed on, gesturing wildly at the stone fortress. “History will be your companion. The Beacon has stood for over three hundred years and will continue to stand until we’re all dust dancing our days away in the wind. Here you’ll learn more than you thought possible, and I will be your guide to—”

Stiles had first thought Finstock was _nuts_ when he’d first arrived to the Beacon. Judging by the way Isaac’s mouth was agape his thoughts were running along a similar track. But after years of seeing Promised come and go, Stiles understood why Finstock’s introductory speech was so ludicrous. 

As Finstock rambled on, only about half of what he was saying was accurate, Issac’s tears dried. Finstock’s eyes would flicker to the new Beta briefly, and he only stopped when Isaac’s lips curled into a weak smile. 

“Right.” Finstock cleared his throat, his voice hoarse. “There’s probably some breakfast inside. Stiles will show you around.” 

Stiles tried not to let his shock be too apparent. Lydia was much more approachable. Isaac glanced at Stiles and his smile faded. 

“Come on.” Stiles jerked his head to the side. “We’ll eat and walk.” Stiles led the way, grabbing a quick bowl of lukewarm oatmeal and handing it to Isaac. He saw the Omega eye it warily. “I know it looks gross but it stays in your stomach longer so you won’t be hungry for a while. If you don’t like it, you’ll have to wait for lunch.”

“I-I like it.” Isaac swallowed. “Just… not hungry.”

Stiles envied Lydia. She was able to be patient and smile like a star. When Stiles tried to smile on command he looked will. 

“Isaac, I get it. You’re scared and you’re in a new place and after hours in a car with Finstock you’re running on fumes. Trust me, you _need_ to eat.” 

The Beacon was a fortress, and it wasn’t just an exaggerated description that Finstock loved to use. The walls were made of heavy stones and the surrounding fence was black iron. It was built to withstand time and conflict. Stiles showed Isaac the shared living quarters, the baths, and then moved to the Archives. 

While living spaces were small the Archives were the biggest. Stiles still marveled at the spiral staircase that cut through four floors of the Beacon. Each floor was full of shelves holding books and old tomes. Lanterns lined the walls and the outer walls of the upper floors were almost all glass, allowing natural light to minimize electricity use. 

The smell of dust and paper still made Stiles smile as he took the steps two at a time, Isaac struggling to keep pace. 

“We spend most of our time here. You’ll start with basic studies then move onto scribe work, and maybe even translations once you’re ready.” Maps of neighboring towns hung on the wall, various letters as well. “We also get requests to teach children, though any payment is a contribution to the Beacon.” 

Stiles led Isaac back down to the ground floor, leading him out to the garden. 

“We grow most of our own food. Any Promised, Beta or Omega, cannot be touched by law. From this day forward you will fall under that law.” A basin, several knives, and a pair of black leather gloves were waiting for them in the grass. Isaac saw them and froze. “Any questions?” 

Stiles studied Isaac. He had dark circles under his eyes that were years deep and his clothes were visibly patched up and re-sewn in several places. 

_It could be a lot worse,_ Stiles wanted to say. _Be glad you’re not an Omega like me. Know that it could always be worse._

He remained silent. Isaac took wavering breath and met Stiles’s eyes. 

“Lydia is an Omega, correct?” Stiles nodded. “Then why would she—I mean—” Isaac gestured to Stiles. “With you there’s no other choice, but why wouldn’t she live in some wealthy household? She’d never have to worry about anything—”

Stiles held up a gloved hand. The material creaked and Isaac choked as he struggled to swallow the rest of his words. 

“Here’s some advice, Isaac. Never be afraid to ask questions, but don’t be surprised if the answer is _none of your business_.” Isaac flinched and Stiles wondered if Finstock was watching and if he’d realize that Stiles wasn’t suited for the introductory tour. “Look, you don’t have to listen to me, but I were you I’d just live with no assumptions about anything I see here. Maybe Lydia will tell you why, maybe she won’t.”

“R-Right.” 

Awkward silence grew between them. Stiles motioned to the bowl. 

“Ready?” 

Isaac nodded and sat down on the ground. Stiles went behind him and gently wove his fingers through Isaac’s hair. The new Beta’s shoulders trembled, a ghostly vibration accompanied with hitched, shallow breaths. Stiles made the first cut, a fistful of hair falling to the ground. 

He didn’t say anything as Isaac cried. There was nothing he could say that would be a comfort. 

::::

Sometime after lunch Erica dropped off a new bundle of personal requests from Beacon Hills. He had a few family trees to file and document, three copy requests—and he had a package from the Hales. 

Stiles slowly cut through twine and unwrapped the paper as his heart thudded. His hands shook, the gloves squeaking against his skin as he pulled out a thick leather tome. Chinese characters were carved into the cover. 

“Hey, kid.” Stiles jumped and turned to see Finstock pull up a chair. “Get anything good?”

“Yeah. Some family trees to be added.” Stiles smiled, his eyes trailing back to the tome. “The Hales sent something in Chinese. I can’t wait to get digging into that.” 

He felt himself smiling. 

When he’d first presented as a _male_ Omega his father had wept for three days. There wasn’t anything Stiles could do or say to make it stop, to change what he was. Omegas were rare and women Omegas were treasured. They were living legends that would bring an Alpha unspeakable pleasure and litters of children. They were the ideal and those who presented were often married off to Alphas who showered them in wealth and affection. 

Male Omegas could not bear children. Male Omegas could either become Promised to a life of knowledge and chastity… or be left to become those dirty jokes whispered in the school yard. _Male Omegas, I hear they’ll do anything for a knot. If you go to the cities and find the right dark alley, you’ll see them, wandering in a sticky lust haze._

Dwelling on the past and things Stiles would never be able to change was useless. He did his best to remain in the present, but on days when he had nothing but _another_ happy family to add to a Pack’s bloodline he wanted to blind himself with his fountain pen. 

Oddly enough, the Hales and their sporadic additions of rare books kept him going. It made it easier to focus at the task at hand. 

“The Hales, huh?” Finstock peered at the book. “They’ve either got an impressive collection or someone is doing a lot of traveling on their behalf.”

Stiles ran his fingers over the tome. Even through his leather gloves the sensation of the heavy cover was enough to bring rare serenity. His thumb stroked the corner as Finstock stretched. 

“The new kid’s a bit skittish.” 

Finstock rested his elbows on the table and scratched the scruff on his face. Finstock was odd enough even without being the Head Caretaker at the Beacon. He had wild hair that stood out when he walked with the Promised and their shaved heads. He had large, white teeth and he was loud in everything he did. 

He would be better suited in a city. He’d be the most well known Beta on his street and he’d always be the person everyone secretly looked forward to getting gifts from. He’d have a wife who would always be smiling at her ludicrous husband. He’d have a bunch of kids and their bedroom stories would be accompanied with extravagant shadow puppetry. 

But instead Finstock was the Caretaker of the Beacon. Instead of a wife and children he had Erica as a guard and three Promised, two Omegas and one Beta. 

“He’ll be fine. He’ll adapt.” 

Finstock hummed and bobbed his head. He stood and his arm twitched. Stiles recognized the aborted motion for physical contact. Finstock couldn’t shake the habit, it seemed, and it created a lot of awkward withdrawals and sheepish smiles. 

“I’m going to start dinner. I’ll whip up something hot for our new friend. I’m thinking lasagna.”

Stiles’s stomach growled as if waiting for the cue. He flushed as Finstock laughed all the way down the stairs. 

Stiles turned back to the Hale tome and cracked his knuckles. He was sure that once he was done translating he wouldn’t need to cross reference for Chinese characters anymore. Amber light lowered down the windows until Stiles was only using the very last sliver. He was hunched over several Chinese character scrolls with the Hale tome in the center. His hands cramped and the cold air seeped down to his bones. Finstock rang the bells for food that ran up all four floors of the Archives. Stiles turned the page and he froze when a slip of paper fell out. 

It was thick, too new to be a loose page in the tome. It was folded and Stiles opened it up. He had to blink, so accustomed to Chinese characters that for a few moments he didn’t comprehend the English lettering. 

The bells kept ringing and ringing, but Stiles couldn’t move until Finstock hollered. 

“ _Stiles_ , you’re not skipping dinner. I will lasso you and drag you down here myself if I have to, so help me God!” 

“I’m _coming_!” 

He slipped the paper back into the middle of the tome and closed the book. He ran down the stairs so fast that he was dizzy by the time he made it to the ground floor. 

Isaac stared at him while Lydia handed him his favorite plate (the green one with the chip on the bottom). Finstock eyed him and Erica cut up the lasagna and began to dish it out. 

“Everything okay? You’re never late for dinner.” 

“Yeah.” Sties shoved a forkful of too-hot pasta and cheese into his mouth. “Totally.”

::::

_I’ve heard that the Beacon has a particular scribe that’s mastered seven spoken languages. Rumor has it they even know a few dead tongues as well. I’m not sure if any of this is true. I hope this tome finds you well. I eagerly await to see what treasure lie within it, as well as what you think._

The gardens at the Beacon had always been minimal but efficient. Under Isaac’s expert care the plants and flowers flourished into a symphony of colors and scents that made Stiles’s breath catch. 

Lydia sat by a rose bush, the petals that had fallen onto her shaved head a soft reminder of what her hair used to be like. Stiles carefully walked between the flowerbeds until he was by Lydia’s side. 

“No, Finstock hasn’t come back yet.” Lydia didn’t look up from her book of poetry. “You’ll be the first to know once he does.” 

When she lifted her eyes she was no longer smiling. Stiles was better than letting himself be read so easily. He wrung his hands and his stomach twisted as he gazed through the gaps in the iron fence. 

“Hey, guys!” Erica’s boisterous shout made them both jump. Lydia hurried to her feet and brushed the rose petals off her shoulders. “Check this out!” Stiles and Lydia ran around the back to the vegetable patch to see Isaac struggling to hold three large baskets of tomatoes and corn. “We’re going to have a _feast_!” Erica crowed, then slapped her hand over her face. “Shit, Finstock is the only cook.” 

“Actually,” Isaac’s ears were bright red, “I know a few recipes.”

Stiles and Lydia helped Isaac carry the produce into the kitchen and soon they figured out that he didn’t know a _few_ recipes. Isaac knew _hundreds_. 

“My dad would have me cook for him and my brothers.” Isaac moved efficiently. His face was slack the same way it would relax when he planted seeds and watered the flowers. His voice was distant like he was talking in his sleep. “My brother said it wasn’t half bad.” 

His hands trembled as he stirred the soup. Erica’s eyes bled blue and her claws extended briefly before she hid them under the table. 

The food wasn’t good. It was _phenomenal_. Stiles made an indecent sound at the first spoonful and Finstock walked in to all four of them slumped over in their seats and groaning due to over-eating. 

“I leave you kids alone for a few hours and the next thing I know I’ve been usurped.” He couldn’t keep a straight face and ended up giggling while he grabbed a bowl for himself. He took a large spoonful and his eyes widened. “Isaac,” he spoke around half-chewed food, “did you make this?” 

Isaac was too full to be bashful.

“I did.”

“Wow.” Finstock smacked his lips together. “You’ve got to share the recipe. I’ll be your most loyal student.” Finstock lugged his bags to the table and Stiles sat up, forcing the food-induced exhaustion away. “There are a few new requests. And Stiles, the Hales sent over a new book as well.”

“Oh?” Stiles only took the book when Finstock offered it to him. “How kind of them.” 

“Yeah.” Finstock slouched in his seat; the bags under his eyes and wrinkles on his forehead were suddenly noticeable. His loud nature wasn’t just to bring necessary comic relief to their dismal reality—but it was also to hide his vulnerability. When Stiles looked too closely he saw that Finstock was so _old_ and so _tired_. The mirage vanished and Finstock grinned. “Alpha Hale said that our Archives had the best turnaround and analysis she’s ever come across. I said I’d keep my scribe on it.” 

It was a heavy parcel. Stiles’s mouth was dry when he tucked it under his arm. 

“I’m going to get this set up at my station. I’ll be right back.”

Stiles walked out of the kitchen but by the time he was at the staircase he was running. He was out of breath when he reached his spot on the fourth floor. He carefully cut away the wrapping and then tore off his gloves with his teeth. 

This time he was sent a Latin manuscript with various intricate illustrations of insects. Stiles gently opened it, the pages so thin they were translucent. 

When he turned it onto its side the indentation was obvious. He let it fall open to accommodate the unnatural addition. Sure enough another folded letter was inside. He lifted it up and something metal slid out of the folded edge and hit the floor with a cheery _ding_ before it rolled under the table. 

“Shit.” Stiles swore under his breath. He pushed his chair back and got on his knees, squinting in the dark. “Come on—”

He reached out and groped at the dirty floor that was covered in dust. He leaned forward and savored a moment of triumph when his fingers closed around the small bit of metal. Within the next breath he shuddered when _heat_ swept through him. He choked, his knees giving out as he slid face first into the grimy floor. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and flinched at the feeling of Omega slick running down his thigh. 

God, he should have known better. He could see it in humiliating detail, his sudden thrill at a book, how anxiously he’d awaited its arrival, and down to how much he’d eaten in preparation for an accelerated metabolism and dehydration. Really, after so many years, Stiles should have been able to recognize the signs of preheat. 

Stiles forced his legs to move. He clenched the metal in his fist and pulled himself up. He made sure to slip the letter up his sleeve before he closed the book. 

“I am… more than my biology.” Stiles growled out the words as he made his way to the stairs. Every _squelch_ made Stiles’s whole body clench in shame. His knuckles were white and he swayed by the railing. “I am better than my heat.”

He took it slow. By the time he reached the second floor his teeth ached and he was covered in sweat. He must have called for Finstock because the Caretaker was there to wrap a sheet around Stiles’s shoulders. 

“You’re okay.” Stiles was far from okay but he couldn’t bite back at the sentiment. “Come on, Stiles. “You’re almost there.” 

He could hear Lydia speaking softly to Isaac, explaining the single room in the basement with a skylight. Stiles hugged his arms around his stomach to keep from reaching out for touch. 

Finstock went first and pulled the curtain away from the skylight. 

During his first heat at the Beacon Stiles had called the room a dungeon. He’d never forget the look of horror on Finstock’s face as he flinched. Since then he’d painted the walls, installed the skylight, and hung tapestries. 

“Stiles?” Stiles blinked and struggled to focus his vision. He drew in a shuddering inhale and met Finstock’s gaze. “Where are your gloves?”

“My…?” Stiles looked down at his bare hands. “I left them upstairs.” 

“Okay. That’s okay, I can get them later.” Finstock always had trouble looking at Stiles when he was in heat. Stiles didn’t blame him. Even as an concept, Male Omegas were an evolutionary misstep. Being presented with such a thing in heat must have been jarring on an instinctual level. “Are you—?”

“Yeah.” Stiles shook himself, his fists clenched. “Just the hands. I’m good; it just came out of nowhere. Took me by surprise.” 

Stiles turned around and held his hands out behind him. Finstock slid the leather cuffs on and bound his wrists together. As soon as Finstock let go Stiles relaxed. Breathing was easier and he didn’t feel like he was spiraling. 

“We’ll make a big breakfast for you tomorrow.” Finstock’s lip wobbled. “You’re good?”

Stiles nodded with a smile. 

“Sorry about that.”

Finstock scoffed. 

“Please. You’re one of the most in-control Omegas I’ve ever met.” 

Stiles knew this to be true. The bed had more hooks for full body restraints, but Stiles never needed it. He said it was mind over matter and that he had enough to think about than to care about some biological heat and the unnatural (and impossible) urge to breed. 

When Finstock closed the door and silence seeped into Stiles’s ears… he wondered if it was simply because he’d never tasted bodily pleasure. How could he long for something he didn’t know? 

He waited for ten minutes and counted every second under his breath.

Once he was convinced it was safe he twisted his shoulders, sat down, and pinned his back to the wall. He shook his arms and loosened the paper hidden in his sleeve. He strained his neck and closed his eyes when he _finally_ was able to brush his fingers against the paper’s edge. He pulled it out with surgeon’s precision.

Stiles kicked off his shoes and socks. He leaned back and gingerly used his feet to unfold the letter. His body throbbed and his pants were soaked, but Stiles didn’t mind, not when the words were enough to make him smile. 

::::

_Eight languages, that’s marvelous. I’ve only mastered three myself. English, French, and German. It’s even more impressive since your learning is not due to exposure._

_I’ll see if we can acquire something Arabic for you, but don’t fault me if it takes time. I’m not in that region often, though to help expand your language I might just have to make an exception._

_Have you done much traveling? Where would you like to go?_

When Stiles turned seven his mother got him a globe for his room. Stiles remembered that globe more than the rest of his house. His mother would spin it, guiding his finger against its side and when it stopped she’d read about whatever region it landed on. 

Nostalgia didn’t often tempt Stiles, but when it did he chose to remember his mother that way. She’d held him close, her voice a warm anchor. She always ended her stories with, _“And one day you’ll see it for yourself, sweetheart.”_

It was easier to remember those times and not when she screamed at his father when they thought he was asleep. Screaming and crying, the kind of desperate ugly sobbing that would leave your limbs numb and prickling, she’d said, _“He’s not just an Omega, he’s our **son**.”_

The seasons changed until they were back in the summer. Isaac took over the kitchen and his hands didn’t shake. 

Summer rain came in sheets and while it was great for vegetables it made everyone stir crazy. 

Isaac, Erica, Lydia, and Stiles hovered at the doorway to the back gardens. Erica crossed her arms. 

“We should rock-paper-scissors for it.” 

“No.” Stiles rolled his eyes. “You always win. I’ll volunteer since Isaac went last time, but it will go faster if someone holds the basket.” 

“I’ll do it.” Lydia stepped forward. “It’s not like I have to worry about my hair getting frizzy.” 

They ran out into the rain, thunder booming above them as they sprinted to the tomato patch first. The rain made everything feel heavy and Lydia had to shout over the water. 

“I won’t ask what you’re doing.” She wiped water from her eyes. “Only that you be careful.” 

On a strictly technical level, nothing was illegal when it came to Stiles and whoever was writing him at the Hale residence. Hell, Stiles didn’t know their name, gender, or orientation. He didn’t reveal that about himself either… but the gifts…

So far it amounted to five rings, each from a different part of the world with the native language inscribed around the inside. It wasn’t anything other than curiosity, surely. Maybe the Hale’s traveler was lonely; maybe they enjoyed having a captive audience… Stiles couldn’t know.

The gifts were the things that were dangerous. The letters Stiles could talk himself out of, but not the presents. 

Lightening streaked across the sky. Stiles opened his mouth to prompt Lydia to turn back to the Beacon when he saw her face. 

Her eyes were wide and her skin grey. Stiles followed her gaze to see a hulking, bleeding shape step out of the trees with bright red eyes. Sickly chills dropped down Stiles’s spine. It was an Alpha, a blonde handsome one. He growled out Lydia’s name, loud enough that Stiles could hear it over the thunder. 

He only had one arm.

“Erica.” Stiles didn’t think as he grabbed Lydia’s wrist and pulled, dropping the basket as the Alpha _roared_ behind him. “ _Erica_ —!”

Erica flew forward with an answering roar of her own. 

Stiles got Lydia inside, slammed the door closed, and locked it. Finstock came running. 

“Call the police.” He couldn’t block out the cries from the fight outside. Isaac pressed himself against the wall and Lydia covered her ears as Erica cried out, the sound shrill, fragile, and unforgettable. Stiles covered his eyes and was thankful that Finstock was calm. “There’s an Alpha on the premises, he came after Lydia.” 

The joke is that the quickest way for someone to die is to go after a Promised Omega. One touch and they take a limb. Aggression or overt sexual intent and the standard sentencing is beheading. In a case like the one outside where there was no time for an executioner and witnesses, any method of death would do. 

Hours later and the one-armed Alpha’s body was being taken away by the police while the medic sewed up the deep gashes and bites on Erica’s face and chest. 

“Oh my God, guys,” Erica whined from her bedroom when all four of them insisted on staying up with her. “It’s a couple of scratches, the doctor said by next year the scars will be completely gone.” 

Stiles watched Erica shift uncomfortably on the bed. 

“That’s a shame,” Stiles said, his mind still numb with shock, “the scars would have been an improvement.” 

Erica tilted her head back and laughed loudly before she clutched her face. 

“Ow _fuck_ , Jesus,” Stiles giggled. “I love you, Stilinksi.” 

She flipped him off and tension bled out of all of their shoulders. Finstock ran the last of the tomes back to the town, Stiles’s answering letter enclosed. The three of them sat around Erica’s bed, trading stories until their voices were hoarse. 

“My parents were going to sell me.” Lydia said very late that evening between shallow breaths. She clenched her fists in the blankets. “They’d fallen into debt and their Omega daughter was their saving grace. I could marry rich and my wedding gift would be their debt wiped clean. So I became a Promised Omega. I believe that Alpha you fought today was my intended.” 

When Finstock returned he didn’t have any new tomes from the Hales. Instead they’d sent a Beta. 

::::

_I’m glad to hear you and your fellow friends are all right. I’m not sure how Boyd will compare to your Beta, but we send him with our highest regard while your Beta heals._

_I will be traveling for a while but I hope to return with a suitable present. I plan to bring my letters with me. Do you keep yours? I have to admit… I wasn’t expecting such a companion when I first wrote you, but I’m happy to have been mistaken. Stay safe._

Claudia Stilinski’s immune system failed her when Stiles was fourteen. It had been two years since he’d presented as an Omega and two years of his parents fighting. His mom started smoking and that’s how Stiles knew something was wrong. She’d never touched a cigarette in her life and suddenly she was up to two packs a day. 

_“It’s okay, mom.”_ Stiles hugged her because she was the only one left who would touch him. _“Dad’s embarrassed. He’s the Sheriff and everyone looks up to him.”_ His mother shuddered and held him tighter. _“He still loves me.”_

 

She didn’t say anything; she just clutched him tighter until dad got home. 

His mother would only speak to him in her final moments, and that’s when she pressed her final gift to Stiles into his gloved hands. 

_“Take these. Don’t tell your father.”_ She ran her cold fingers through Stiles’s hair. _“I love you, Stiles.”_

Boyd was quiet and didn’t smile. Erica _loathed_ him. 

“It’s bullshit. I’m _fine_.” Erica snarled as she walked with Stiles around the border. The one-armed Alpha’s blood and torn shirt still clung to the very top of the fence. “I don’t need some Governess’s side squeeze Beta.”

“I can hear you.” 

Boyd called out from the woods, his eyes flashing bright blue. Stiles felt his ears get hot while Erica sneered. 

“Good. Fuck off, go help Isaac with the cucumbers or see if Lydia needs books put away.”

“Is that why you’re so rattled?” Boyd’s voice was sharp as steel, his expression infuriatingly blank. “It must be hard to remember that your job is to be a guard when all you do is play house with a bunch of Promised Omegas—”

Erica roared, shifting into her Beta form only to immediately turn back, wailing when her stitches tore open all at once. She stumbled and fell to her knees. Stiles froze, wanting to touch her, to help her to her feet, but he couldn’t. 

“Go.” Boyd spoke calmly. “Get some hot towels and bandages ready. I can carry her, you can’t.” 

Stiles waited for Erica to meet his eyes and nod before he ran. Lydia prepped the bandages while Stiles grabbed the medical paste. 

“They’ll either kill or fuck each other.” Lydia smirked as the two Betas came out of the woods. “It’s all anyone can do.”

Stiles hadn’t heard from his writer at the Hales for a month. He bit his nails until they bled and he’d often find an excuse to go back to his sleeping quarters to re-read the letters he’d hid above the ceiling panel above his bed. 

The simmering tension made everyone disperse to give Erica and Boyd as much space as possible. Stiles went to the very edge of the property. He rested his back against the iron fence and read over new birth and death certificates. 

He finished his giant stack right when Finstock rolled in front of the gates, letting the doors swing open so he could drive through. He waved, his smile tight. 

“Hey, the Hales finally came through with something new.” He handed Stiles a thick bundle and carried the rest himself. “Also, I’ve got something to discuss with everyone over dinner.” Finstock shook himself loose. “Do you think Isaac made something good?” 

He pushed the door open and Erica and Boyd immediately took a step away from each other. Nothing seemed amiss, but it looked like they’d been caught. Finstock paused, his eyes narrowed. Boyd crossed his arms and tilted his chin up while Erica cleared her throat. 

“Hey, Finstock.”

“Hi.” He took in her bandages and Stiles saw him clench his fists. “Everything okay here?” 

Stiles wished he could say he was paying attention to the two Betas. He’d hear about it later, he was too busy peeling back the paper to reveal Arabic text. 

::::

_I’m sorry to hear about your mother… but I can’t be sorry about how your life has gone or else we never would have met._

_Did you know that the concept of a Promised is not new? In periods of history there have always been those in charge of knowledge and the distribution of that knowledge._

_Be careful, my friend. You’re terribly smart. Just because they’ve ingrained the idea of a Promised being untouchable, don’t think that you won’t be noticed._

_I hope we can speak soon._

Living in isolation at the Beacon made it easy to forget about the rest of the world. Even though most of Stiles’s day consisted of reading about faraway places… it was easy to think of it all as a fantastic story. 

Isaac pressed his face up against the window as the trees thinned out to reveal houses, towns—a city filled with cars and families. People who wore colorful clothes and jewelry, people with record players and radios, so many people that the noise hurt Stiles’s ears. 

Lydia rode in the passenger’s seat, Stiles and Isaac behind her, and Boyd and Erica had to ride in the very back with their bags and books. Stiles tugged at his shirt’s high collar, taking deep breaths so he didn’t sweat. 

Stiles’s leather gloves creaked. 

“Turn here.” Boyd’s voice startled them all. They’d been driving for hours and _this was it._ Stiles forced his chest to keep moving, to not seize up in the nauseating mixture of _terror-excitement-hope_ that spun wildly within him. “We’re close.”

_“The Hales have invited all of us to spend a week with them. They wanted to thank us for doing such a great job for their Pack. We don’t have to go. If any of you are uncomfortable we can politely decline.”_ Finstock had said the night before. _“The Hale Pack is unique in that they have two Alphas.”_

Stiles hadn’t dared to say anything because he knew that despite his best efforts he wouldn’t be able to hide his excitement. 

The Hale residence was atop a large hill that overlooked the busy and expansive Beacon Hills below. It was a large estate and while the house wasn’t quite as large as the Beacon, it was illustrious in its colorful wood and decorations. 

Vines crawled up the east side of the house and the smell of moss on the decorative stones brought a calm along the breeze. 

Stiles clutched his suitcase tightly as the entire Hale Pack and staff came out of the large oak doors to greet them. There were at least seventy people. Any one of them could be Stiles’s writer. 

“Thank you so much for coming.” Talia Hale, the Governess of Beacon Hills, wore a sensible blouse, trousers, and a dazzling smile. She shook Finstock’s hand and hugged Boyd. “I know the drive must have been long, but I’m sure Boyd kept you entertained with his sparkling personality.” 

Erica snorted. Stiles and Lydia did their best to bite down their smiles. Even Isaac’s shoulders trembled with laughter as Boyd cleared his throat. 

“I did my best, Alpha.” 

Once introductions started Stiles struggled to focus. There were so many names, a majority not  
Hales, that left Stiles feeling adrift. Talia’s brother was the second Hale Alpha. Talia had three children, Laura, Derek, and Cora. 

The rest of the staff were so diverse in age and name that Stiles lost track. 

Cora had a noticeable tan and wind burns on her skin. She looked uncomfortable in her dress and wore weathered leather boots. She bounced on the balls of her feet like she’d do anything to get out of polite company.

Stiles understood the feeling intimately. 

Finstock cracked a joke that made Talia’s eyes widen. Boyd introduced Erica to some other Betas and Lydia and Isaac spoke to Laura. 

Stiles slipped through the crowd easily. Everyone took care never to come too close. Cora saw his approach and swallowed loudly before straightening her posture. 

“Hi.” Stiles smiled and hoped he didn’t look as terribly excited as he felt. “I was hoping you could point me in the direction of the traveling team responsible for collecting such exotic material.”

“Oh.” Cora’s eyes lit up. “That would be me, actually. Well, I’m part of the team.” Cora pointed to Peter Hale. “Uncle Peter is our leader. He’s been letting me take the reigns on the last few expeditions though.” 

Peter Hale looked over at them. He smiled, his teeth bright against his tanned face. Stiles felt his stomach clench and he barely remembered to smile back. He was sure Peter was nice, but Alphas left him feeling on edge. 

“I’d love to meet the team. If they’d be comfortable with that.” 

“Of course they would.”

Cora lied, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows. No one was comfortable with Promised Omegas apart from other Promised Omegas. Even Finstock and Erica would experience moments of clarity regarding the company they kept. Stiles had been the same way as a boy. When a Promised would be escorted in public by their Beta guards everyone would stare as they now stared at Stiles. 

Promised Omegas held unspeakable amounts of history and knowledge in their hands, but they were kept isolated and under no circumstances were to be touched. In a world where touch was so necessary in displays of Pack bonds and affection, the Promised were half respected figures and half urban legends. 

“Just, uh.” Cora looked away from Stiles and his smile, “give me two seconds.” 

Cora spun around and shoved two of her fingers in her mouth. She whistled a shrill five-note melody that prompted a cluster of people to scramble to her, only to stop abruptly stop to avoid bumping into Stiles. 

“Listen up, you’ve all got five minutes to grab some food and get back to the hangar. Mr. Stilinski wants to see how we run things.” When no one moved Cora rolled her eyes. “ _Go_!” 

When her team scattered Cora laughed. She turned to Stiles, her cheeks pink. 

“Is Mr. Stilinski okay? Or is it sir, or—?”

“Just Stiles is fine.” Cora nodded and ran her hands down the front of her shirt nervously. Stiles glanced behind them to see Peter and Talia speaking. “Will your Uncle be joining us?” 

“No. He’s got a lot of appointments.” She laughed. “Come on, I’ll take you over to the hangar.” 

Stiles followed Cora with dizzying relief that Alpha Hale would not be joining them. 

::::

Hours had passed and Stiles was no closer to figuring out who was writing him letters. 

There was only one person he sincerely hoped it _wasn’t_ , and that was a Beta named Jackson. Stiles hid his disappointment and instead let Cora show him their vehicles, ranging from terrain climbing Jeeps to sporty motorcycles. 

She spun a gear on a hang glider and sent a screw flying into Stiles’s face.

“Oh _fuck_ —oh God, I’m so sorry.”

Her face turned a deep red that approached purple. Stiles picked up the screw and tossed it back to her. 

“No worries. I need to work on my reflexes. They’re shit.” 

Hysteric giggles went around when Stiles cursed. It was as if a veil was lifted. By the time dinner began every Beta was fighting to tell Stiles the next story. The Hale dining area was expansive, a long table that split off into branches to accommodate everyone. 

Stiles sat with Cora at the far end of the left branch where he could comfortably overlook Lydia and Isaac across the room while Finstock sat at the center with Talia and Peter. The food was decadent and abundant, the meat melting in Stiles’s mouth. He glanced over at a face he didn’t recognize. 

A young woman sat next to Peter Hale. She was wearing a beautiful dress with intricate beading sewn on that reflected twinkling beams of light. When he looked to her face Stiles’s fingers twitched. She glared at him. 

“Cora?” 

“Mm?”

Cora hummed, her cheeks stuffed with steak. 

“Who’s that sitting next to your Uncle? I didn’t see her out front when we arrived.”

Cora struggled to swallow and Jasmine, a wily Beta who was a master of innuendo, leaned over Stiles’s plate to grab that last croissant. 

“ _That_ is Omega Number Seventeen.”

“ _Jasmine_.” 

Cora’s eyes were wide and Jasmine huffed. 

“I didn’t _mean_ — Stiles, I meant no offense, but clearly you wouldn’t be offended. You’re not in the same category.” 

Danny, their lead navigator, refilled Stiles’s glass with water. 

“Alpha Talia wants Peter to get married and settle down. Any time we’re back at the manor she sets Peter up with as many Omegas as possible before our next departure.” 

The Omega in question, Number Seventeen, pushed her plate away and stormed off. Talia shoved Peter but he didn’t pay her any mind and continued to eat. The end result was Talia excusing herself from the table discreetly. 

Cora groaned at the entire affair. 

“You can see why we’re rarely home.”

Stiles smiled and when he glanced away from Cora he noticed that Peter was staring at him. Once Stiles met his gaze Peter smiled. It was a soft curve of his lips, like he’d whispered an inside joke into Stiles’s ear instead of merely gazing at him from a ways down the table. It was familiar and intimate, and the expression didn’t make an ounce of sense. 

“I think it’s safe to say,” Stiles broke eye contact with Alpha Peter Hale to smile at Cora, “that when Peter is ready to settle down he’ll have endless stories of his travels to tell his children.” 

The group of travelers laughed and knocked their glasses together. 

He ate too much.

The day Stiles left his home for good his dad made him eat as much as he could without getting sick. He’d made all of Stiles’s favorites, everything he’d ever wanted, waffles, pizza, beef chili, grilled cheese, potato leak soup, and ice cream. A lot of ice cream. Stiles had been fourteen and the Caretaker was on his way to pick Stiles up. To take him away—keep him hidden until everyone forgot that the Sheriff’s only son was a male Omega. 

“ _Eat_.” His dad used his stern voice. Stiles obeyed. They both wept but they both didn’t acknowledge it. _“Who knows what kind of food they’ll have.”_ Stiles couldn’t taste any of it, his stomach was in knots and he couldn’t stop shaking—he was afraid but happy, in mourning but excited. _“Eat.”_

His father didn’t hug him when Finstock took him away. Finstock had a look on his face like he could hear an animal crying but couldn’t make it stop. 

_“It’s fine.”_ Stiles said in the back of Finstock’s car. His suitcase held a world map his mother had written on, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and his mother’s gift. Finstock met Stiles’s eyes through the rearview mirror. Stiles jutted his chin out. _“My dad is not a bad person. He just has bad luck.”_

Finstock, who back then had just been _The Caretaker_ to Stiles, grimaced. 

_“Look, kid—”_

_“Pull over.”_

Only an hour in the car and Stiles was on his knees in the gravel and vomiting on the side of the road. All the food he hadn’t been able to taste burned his throat and tongue. The only taste left was acid and salt. Stiles sobbed, choking on tears and bile as the last of his meal splattered on the asphalt. 

He didn’t realize Finstock was touching his shoulder until he squeezed it. Stiles flinched, turned quickly, and nearly fell back into the pile of sick. 

Finstock held his hands up. 

_“You okay?”_ No, Stiles wasn’t okay. His eyes burned and his father hadn’t even stood out in the driveway to watch him leave. He just closed the door with a, ‘Goodbye, Stiles. I love you,’ and that was it. _“Stupid question,”_ Finstock amended with a gentle shake of his shoulders. _“Do you want a hug? You still got time before we get to the Beacon.”_

Stiles wanted to say that he didn’t, that he might as well get used to it. That he was already used to it. His father hadn’t given him anything, not even a high-five, in years. He didn’t want to miss it; he wanted to learn to love it. The whole not-touching thing. 

Stiles nodded, his chest hitching, as he threw himself into Finstock’s outstretched arms. 

Finstock hugged him tight, pushing the breath out of Stiles’s lungs. Stiles shuddered and Finstock smoothed the back of his hair with a murmured, _“I’ve got you, it’s okay, kid.”_

Stiles woke with a shout, his skin clammy. He ran out of the Hale’s guest bedroom and barely made it to the bathroom in time. His knees hit the tile and his stomach emptied the too-rich and too-delicious food into the bowl. He breathed deep, ragged and raw, and when he could stand he splashed water on his face and washed his mouth out. 

Cold water clung to his face when Stiles left the bathroom. His heart was pounding too hard in his chest to go back to sleep so he ventured to the second story terrace. 

He opened the door quietly, the morning dew cold against his toes. His breath puffed out in front of him. 

From the terrace he could see the city in its witching hour glory. A few lights flickered. Stiles took a deep breath and stroked a flower petal on a vine that crept up the Hale’s house. 

When his chest had stopped seizing he realized he wasn’t alone. 

Stiles couldn’t say how he knew, he just did. Someone was at the door _looking_ at him. Stiles crushed the flower in his fist, his heart thudding back to an unrelenting rhythm. He waited and hoped it was the writer, that they would _finally_ say something. Seconds ticked by and Stiles’s hope turned to anger. He whirled around. 

No one was there. 

::::

Cora and her team slowly made their way down a narrow dirt path. The other team members held onto each other to keep balance while Stiles just kept low to the ground. 

“We’re almost there, I swear.” Cora was dressed lightly for the summer heat and was still sweating heavily. Stiles felt like he was melting. “Here!” 

The ground evened out to a roaring waterfall and river. 

“Come on,” Jasmine took off running, “last one in has to be the one to check on Number Eighteen!” 

Stiles dove out of the way from the stampede of people scrambling to the river with gleeful shrieks. Danny came up first, spitting out water. 

“Looks like you lost, Stiles.” 

“What?” Stiles had his hands on his hips, his cheeks hot. “I didn’t think I was a part of the equation!” 

Jasmine bobbed next to Danny, her eyes bright. 

“Ooh, I need some cheese to go with all this _whine_!” 

Cora surfaced, looking sheepish.

“You don’t have to. I… I can do it.”

She sounded like it was about as pleasant as pulling out her own teeth. 

“Nah.” Stiles waved her off. “I got it. Now, get out of my way. I’m going to do a cannonball.” 

He wasn’t used to yelling, especially as a display of excitement and joy. His voice was hoarse and his body ached when he finally made the long climb back up the hill, through the gardens, and to the Hale manor. 

His clothes were soaked and his shoes were waterlogged. Lydia and Isaac were on the terrace and they snickered. He waved and sent a line of water flying at them. He walked along the side of the house where Cora had described a patio, and sure enough Peter sat alone at a table. 

Stiles paused, unsure what to do since Peter’s Omega suitor wasn’t there. A chessboard frozen mid-game rested on the table. 

Peter turned at Stiles’s soggy footsteps and smiled. 

“I see Cora showed you the waterfall. It must be dreadful, wearing all those clothes in this heat.” 

“At the Beacon we can dress as we please, just not in a public setting.” Stiles shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I came to check on you and Number—I mean—”

Peter laughed and it wasn’t entirely kind.

“Number Eighteen’s name is Clara, and she’s away for the moment. Please,” Peter gestured to Clara’s empty chair, “take a seat.” Stiles did and wrung out his sleeves over the grass. “I see you were the last to make it into the water.”

“I didn’t know I was included in the game.” 

Stiles grumbled and eyed the board. Peter was winning by a pretty wide margin. He also left himself open, obviously not viewing Clara as much of an adversary. Stiles took her bishop and claimed Peter’s knight. Peter inhaled, obscenely delighted as he leaned forward. 

“You play?”

“I do.” Stiles wasn’t sure he could win with the few pieces Clara had left, but he could make the Alpha work for his smug victory. “Very well, actually.” 

“I appreciate a lack of modesty.” Peter grinned and Stiles felt his pulse jump for a moment. “How has my darling niece been treating you? I told her to be as informative as she could to our favorite scribe.” 

Flattery was a completely new experience. He swallowed. 

“Yes. Everyone has been helpful and illuminating.” 

“Excellent.” Stiles chased after Peter’s queen with his knight. Peter evaded. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”

Stiles opened his mouth to decline, but then he snapped his jaw shut. He jerked his head up and sure enough, Peter was smiling at him with that same intimate and knowing expression from dinner. Stiles’s heart thundered out of control and his mouth was bone dry. Heat prickled and crawled up his face, all the way to his ears. 

_No way,_ Stiles thought, _no fucking way—_

A throat cleared behind him and Stiles leapt out of his seat. Clara stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her eyes darting from his flushed cheeks to his dripping leather gloves. Stiles stumbled back, his blood roaring in his ears. 

Peter’s smile followed him. He ran, his first instinct to tell Finstock, to get them all out before dinner, but he slowed. He took a deep breath. 

He was overreacting. Peter was an Alpha who liked to test limits. That’s what this was, a satisfied curiosity. It hurt, like salt on sunburned skin. So what if an Alpha had given him gifts and written and received personal stories and secrets? It’s not as if Stiles _knew_ Peter’s title, and gifts or no, Peter wouldn’t court a complete stranger through letters. Stiles’s appetite had returned by the time dinner rolled around and sure enough, Peter and Clara were not at the table. 

“Oh wow, guys,” Jasmine bounced in her chair. “Do you think Peter finally found the future Mrs. Hale?” 

“Nah.” Cora shook her head and took another piece of pie. “He probably just took her home early.”

“I don’t know.” Stiles let the words slip out, his tongue numb and bitter. “They seemed to be enjoying a game of chess.” 

Danny and Jess exchanged significant glances before turning back to Cora. Cora refilled her cup of tea. The table was empty except for the travelers, everyone else exhausted of food and conversation. 

“I wouldn’t hold your breath. My Uncle has a very specific list when it comes to the person he’d have as a partner. They’d have to travel with us, they’d need to be smart and willing to learn about the places we’d go, and they couldn’t be boring or Peter would lose his mind. And… we,” she motioned to her team, including Stiles in the sweep of her hand, “would have to like her too.” 

Jasmine rolled her eyes. 

“Bullshit.”

Cora raised her eyebrows. 

“Oh yeah? You know my Uncle better than I do?” 

“No, but if we all play an important role in his decision for a mate, how come he’s never once sent an Omega to get to know the team? You’d think if it were that important he’d bring them in for us to give a final verdict.”

Stiles stood abruptly and was thankful his knees didn’t give out.

“I’m beat. I’ll see you guys tomorrow, right?”

Cora grinned. 

“Of course. We’ll take the Jeep out for a spin. You’ll love it.”

The team chirped in unison with a cheery “Goodnight, Stiles!” He staggered back to his room and wasn’t surprised to find a book on his pillow. Stiles didn’t bother reading the cover. He opened it and a letter fell out.

_Meet me at the garden tonight. Follow the sunflowers._

::::

Stiles hadn’t expected his mother to give him brass knuckles. She’d been so gaunt, looking more like a skeleton than his mom. 

_“Use them for when anyone tries to make you do anything you don’t want to.”_ She touched them and the tips of her fingers blackened and burned before she pulled them away. _“I got them made special. Wolfsbane infused into the metal. As a Promised you’ll have to wear gloves, sweetheart. These won’t hurt you.”_

Stiles wove his fingers through the holes and squeezed. He hadn’t bothered changing clothes and made sure every button and crease was in place. He moved quietly, the grass muting his footsteps under the moonlight. He swallowed the buzzing panic that pressed against his teeth. 

The logical side of him was screaming to turn back, to tell Finstock and Erica. The _last_ thing he should be doing is going up against an Alpha alone. 

Yet Stiles continued. 

The sweet aroma did nothing to calm his nerves as he made his way to the center. A circle of sunflowers stretched and swayed gently in the night wind. Peter stood, annoyingly composed. His eyes flashed red when he saw the brass knuckles on both of Stiles’s fists. 

“You are even more delightful than I’d hoped.” He approached and Stiles didn’t move. “Are those coated in wolfsbane?” 

“They are.” Stiles lifted his chin up. “It’s a gift form my mother for anyone who tries to take what they can’t have.”

Peter didn’t laugh or snarl. 

“Smart. May I test them?” Peter made a stroking motion with his fingers. Stiles held out his left fist and kept his right poised and ready to strike. Peter touched his bare fingers to the metal and hissed. His eyes bled red and his face shifted for a moment before he jerked his hand away. “She had it infused into the metal, not just coated.” 

Stiles felt his chest clench at the thought of his mother protecting him, even after her death. Peter rubbed his fingers until the skin repaired itself. 

“We can’t—I can’t—” As soon as he said the words he couldn’t stop shaking. “I don’t know what you want.” 

Peter swayed close. 

“What do you want, Stiles?” 

He swallowed and his shoulder trembled at the effort it took to stay still and not run, hide… or do something even _more_ dangerous. 

“It doesn’t matter what I want.” Stiles grinned, ugly and marred. “I’m a Promised. We don’t have wants.” 

Stiles jumped when Peter’s fingers touched his wrist. Even through his shirt sleeve the contact felt electric. 

“I didn’t ask what a Promised wants. What do _you_ want?” 

For this contact alone Peter’s arm would be removed and the wound would be cauterized with wolfsbane ash to stop any attempts at reattachment. Peter leaned in close, his breath warm on Stiles’s cheek and neck. Stiles’s heart pounded and his skin was tight. What he wanted would make them both candidates for execution. 

Peter’s fingers trailed up to the inside of Stiles’s elbow. 

“Did you really keep my letters?”

“I take them with me wherever I go.” 

Even if they weren’t caught and brought before a court… an Alpha’s touch was like heroin. Once an Omega had it, once they _wanted_ it, nothing else would satisfy during a heat. Without an Alpha the Omega would burn, going into cardiac arrest while their immunity system failed. It was a five-day death sentence. It was the first horror story every health teacher told in school. 

Stiles swallowed. 

“Do you want to die?” Peter tilted his head to the side and Stiles rolled his eyes. “I mean are you feeling particularly self-destructive this evening?” 

“No. I plan on living a long life. I just have particular tastes.” Peter’s lips brushed Stiles’s cheek on _particular_ and he didn’t care that Peter could hear and feel his breath catch at the feather-light contact. His fingers drew circles on Stiles’s arm, dizzying even with the cloth barrier. “Cora likes you. Our team likes you.”

_That doesn’t matter. By the time my next heat rolls around I’ll be dead anyway,_ Stiles wanted to say. A much younger Stiles would have bought it—the silver-tongued Alpha promising to take the Omega away from it all, it was a story told again and again, but never with a male Omega. 

Stiles wanted to be touched, even if it was by an odd Alpha that he only knew through letters. He knew Peter and yet he was meeting him for the first time. 

Stiles knew from the moment he Promised himself to knowledge that he would die at the Beacon. All he was doing was pushing the clock forward. 

He took a shaky step back. He watched Peter’s brief flicker of despair morph into unrestrained delight when he dropped the brass knuckles. Stiles brought his hands to his mouth and tore off his gloves with his teeth. 

“Touch me.” Peter grinned and the growl that rumbled in his chest made Stiles shiver. “Please.” 

Peter gently encircled Stiles’s wrist and drew him forward. 

“With pleasure.” 

Stiles would have rolled his eyes at the saccharine vocabulary but he couldn’t do much other than _feel_ Peter’s lips kiss the soft skin just behind his ear. Stiles gripped Peter’s shoulders, heat flooding his body so suddenly that for a moment Stiles thought he was _in_ heat. But he had it last month, it was just… 

Lust. 

Moans were pulled from his lips. Peter licked up Stiles’s neck and Stiles’s legs gave out with no warning. Peter’s claws pricked through Stiles’s shirt when he grabbed him. 

“M’sorry.” Stiles couldn’t imagine living with this lust. Did others feel this? Was it always so sharp? How could they bear it? “Oh God.” 

He was lowered to the soft grass. The cold, soft ground was a startling contrast to Peter’s hot and hard body above him. He kept a healthy amount of space between them. His knees bracketed Stiles’s hips and he waited for Stiles to catch his breath. Stiles reached for him, his fingers catching on Peter’s shirt and bumping against his belt. Stiles sat up and Peter let him, remaining still as Stiles traced his fingers up Peter’s chest to cup his face. 

Peter’s skin was soft. His cheeks and neck were covered in rough stubble that sent static streaks of pleasure up his arm. He brushed his fingers through Peter’s hair, he dragged his thumbs down the wrinkles at the corner of Peter’s eyes, and he smoothed his palms over Peter’s shirt. Peter twitched and Stiles froze. Peter ducked his head. 

“Ticklish.” 

Peter moved forward, his lips capturing Stiles’s as his hand reached down to squeeze his erection. Stiles shouted, muffled by Peter’s tongue. Peter kept the pressure steady, his thumb tracing up Stiles’s length—too slow but at the same time too much. 

He hooked his leg around Peter’s hip as he fell against the grass. Their cocks robbed together and Stiles couldn’t keep the air in his lungs. He was sure he looked ridiculous, his eyes unfocused as he kept gyrating, but Peter never laughed. He growled and his grip tightened as he followed Stiles’s lead. 

Pleasure bubbled underneath his skin in hot bursts. Stiles begged for something he didn’t know the name for—an end to his torment. 

Peter grabbed Stiles’s right hand and sucked his fingers into his mouth—  
Stiles screamed. He must have, he felt the familiar burn in his throat and Peter covered his mouth with his hand. He still sucked on Stiles’s fingers mercilessly, and Stiles thrashed because all his attention narrowed to the points of contact, his fingers, their erections, and Peter’s _mouth_ —

He came. 

He ruined his trousers and he didn’t care. His eyes widened and the stars pulsed in time to the vicious throbs that wrecked his body. His limbs jerked and he couldn’t feel his tongue. Above him Peter whimpered, so soft and broken that for a delicious moment Stiles thought he’d somehow injured the Alpha. He trembled above him and Stiles felt and smelled his release. 

The carnal act didn’t provide any higher importance or divine calling. Stiles felt… he felt the way dirt smelled after a storm, earthy and quiet. Stiles flexed his fingers until their sensation returned. 

Peter rolled off next to him in the grass. 

“Thank God I packed more than one change of clothes.” 

Stiles grimaced at the sticky mess that began to cool. Peter’s shoulders bumped against Stiles and he laughed. 

::::

While flattery was an easy manipulation tool Peter hadn’t lied when he said that Stile was more than he’d ever hoped for. 

The Promised Omega’s breathing slowed as they laid out on the grass. After a few minutes Stiles splayed his hand out over Peter’s chest. It wasn’t a practiced motion of contact like with most post-coitus lovers, but a fascination with touch as a concept. Peter wondered if Stiles knew he was humming under his breath as he squeezed Peter’s thigh to test the feel of his muscle. 

Peter propped himself up on his elbow. He couldn’t stop staring at Stiles’s bare hands and the single button that had come undone at his collar. Stiles closed his eyes.

“Where are you headed off to next?”

“Thailand.” Peter sat up. “Danny has mapped out a few ruins to explore. Come on,” Peter pulled Stiles up so he was sitting. “You can’t sleep out here.” 

Stiles rubbed his eyes before he pulled his gloves back on. He clutched his brass knuckles and froze when Peter fastened the loose button on his shirt. 

They walked out of the gardens just as the birds began to chirp. Stiles kept squeezing the brass knuckles. 

“How are you feeling?”

Peter inwardly cringed at his words. Stiles shot him a sharp glance like he knew Peter could have done better than the clumsy inquiry.

“Fine. Good.” Stiles’s shoulders relaxed slightly. “That was… fantastic. Thank you.” 

Though Peter hadn’t been fishing for a compliment he preened all the same. 

It had taken Peter two months to write the first letter. The almost conversational analysis of the texts he’d sent to the Beacon stunned him. Every observation was laced with wry wit as well as refreshing honesty whenever the analyst admitted to simply _not knowing_ due to not seeing the settings himself. 

The correspondence quickly became the main reason Peter would stay at the manor longer than needed. He could endure the parade of Omegas his sister threw at him if it meant a new letter from his reader. 

When the letters grew more personal Peter knew he’d stumbled across someone truly special. Man or woman, Peter didn’t care. He knew a talented team member when he saw them. When the Beacon’s Promised arrived Peter picked Stiles out at first glance. Stiles’s brown eyes had swept over the crowd, searching and never giving anything away besides the tension in his posture. 

“I guess this is goodnight.” 

Stiles lingered in the doorway, his eyes drawn to the horizon and the city that lay across it. Deep lines of exhaustion and yearning cut across his face but never detracted from his beauty. 

“When is your next heat?”

Stiles whipped his head around, his eyes comically wide, his lips parted, and the age stripped from his features. 

“Winter. It should be on schedule for mid December. 

The tone of Stiles’s voice was alarming, a sharp and silent _why_ made Peter frown. 

“I’ll be sure to be home by then.”

Stiles snorted and dissolved into a laughing fit that was too loud and too sharp. Peter shushed him, glancing around because the last thing he wanted was the entire house waking up.

“Sorry.” Stiles covered his mouth. “I’m okay.”

He chuckled all the way down the hall. Peter wrote it off as a post-sex come down. 

A few hours later and his bags were packed. Cora sat in the main caravan, her legs dangling over the side. Jasmine and Danny drove the other vehicles that held the rest of their team. Peter tossed his bags into the back. 

“That was nice.” Cora slapped her palm on the outside of the door and the other car’s engines roared to life. She shifted the car into drive and led the others. “Usually it’s such a drag being home but having the Promised over was fun. Stiles,” she said with a luminous grin that made Peter ache, “was great. We’ll be able to write him directly now that we know who he is. I’m sure his Caretaker won’t mind. 

Peter had the letters in his satchel. 

“I’m sure he’d like that.”

Cora huffed, her cheeks pink as she guided them through the narrow roads downhill. 

“It’s a shame though.”

Her eyes never left the road. 

“What is?” 

“He’s a _Promised_.” Cora flinched at her own vehemence. “Not that it’s _bad_ but I wish we’d gotten to him first. 

Peter grinned. 

“Even though he’s an Omega?”

“Please.” Cora side-eyed him. “Like you give a shit.”

Peter truly adored Cora. She followed him to the ends of the earth. Their team was the best and it had taken years of cultivating for them to make it this far but Peter wouldn’t change it. Soon they were halfway across the world where the humidity was thick and there was not a working phone or radio for miles. 

His team—his _Pack_ —knew that Talia was not the meddling sister who had a key interest in Peter’s love life. Two Alphas born into the same family was rare. Talia didn’t care if Peter could love another or not—she just wanted him to have a Pack of his own. 

She turned her back to him when he was in the room.

When it came to his true Pack, his merry band of travelers, he hoped the choice would be easy when the time came. Peter finally had a partner and once December came he’d be ready to leave the Hale manor behind. 

::::

_I don’t understand what you mean by condescending. It was a simple question as to which country you’d like to go to first._

_Please answer._

_Stiles this isn’t funny._

_You are aware what will happen to during your heart._

_Please answer me._

_Stiles._

_Answer me._

“Mail time.” Finstock shuffled through the front door, a flurry of snow blew in with him. Erica bounced on her heels, failing to hide her excitement. Lydia peered over Erica’s shoulder. 

“Is that from Boyd?”

Erica turned around, her cheeks flushed. 

“Oh my God, _nosy_.”

Isaac snorted. 

“That’s a _yes_.” Erica’s face went from pink to red as Isaac leaned against the doorway. “You should spray your perfume on the paper.” 

“I hate all of you.”

Stiles clung to the warmth, smiling even as Finstock handed him his letters. Cora, Danny, Jasmine… and Peter. He gripped the last one tight in his fist.

The last four letters had all been the same. _Answer me_. Stile was sure this would be the same. Coldness seeped into his hands and Stiles ignored the pull that grew stronger every passing day. Instead he chose to focus on the warmth in the Beacon when Erica chased Isaac around the kitchen with a soup ladle. 

Finstock laughed until his chest rattled with the effort of it. Snow fell outside and they brought out the quilts Finstock sewed over the years. After lunch Stiles followed Lydia back up to the Archives to put some scrolls away. 

“Lydia?” She turned, halfway down a ladder with scrolls strapped to her back. Each breath was a stream of fog out of their mouths. Stiles had the lantern on a pole so she’d always be illuminated. “Do… do you have a moment?” 

She nodded and was silent until her feet were back on the ground.

“What is it?”

She whispered and goosebumps washed over their skin. Stiles dug into his robes until his gloved fingers closed around his brass knuckles. He brought them out and Lydia’s eyes widened. 

“I want you to have these.” The metal gleamed in the dull light. “They’re wolfsbane infused. They’ll take down whoever you hit.” Lydia didn’t touch them, her lips pressed into a thin, pale line. “Please,” Stiles’s voice cracked. “Take them.” 

“What’s going on?” 

“I…” Stiles let the looming terror break the surface for a second, the crushing inevitability that his life was coming to a close. “I’m not going to make it through this heat.” 

“No?” The whites of Lydia’s eyes shined bright. Stiles shook his head. Lydia drew in a sharp breath and her nostrils flared. “Your heat is here.” It wasn’t a question. Stiles could feel it, a growing hollow maw that left his entire body aching. “You can’t get in contact with Peter Hale?”

Stiles snorted, a tad manic because of _course_ Lydia knew who the Alpha was. 

“He…” Stiles swallowed. “There’s no point. So what if I did? I’d have to break free, be lucid enough not to chase after the nearest living thing, and sneak him into the Beacon for a week. I can’t do that, and I certainly can’t do it for the rest of my life.” 

He was lucky that he even had a choice. At least he’d be restrained and wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone in his delirium. Other Omegas, the kind that lingered in the alleyways, were not as fortunate. 

“Was it consensual?” Stiles blinked and Lydia elaborated. “Your dalliance with Mr. Hale.”

“Yes.” Stiles smiled. He stopped shivering as his body temperature increased. “I asked him to do it. I think… I’m just tired.” 

She took the brass knuckles. 

“Is there anything else I can do?” 

“I have letters on the ceiling panel above my bed. When it’s all over, please burn them.” 

The walk down to Finstock was easy. Stiles felt like he was floating, attached to his body by a thin string that tugged him lazily along. Finstock was on his feet in a flash and Stiles watched him do the steps of drawing back the curtains off the skylight, dropping off pile of books, and grabbing the leather restraints. 

“Finstock.” He halted at Stiles’s voice. “I’m going to need the whole set up, not just,” his saliva tasted sour, “not just my hands.” The color drained from Finstock’s face and Stiles hurried to continue. “Just to be safe. It hurts more than I’m used to.” 

“Okay.” Finstock’s hands shook. “Get on the bed. I’ll be right over.”

Stiles obeyed and relaxed like his pants weren’t already soaked. Oddly enough, it wasn’t hard to pretend. He kept his breathing even as Finstock brought over the straight jacket and secured the straps that trapped Stiles’s arms to his chest. Restraints kept his ankles together with only a few inches of wiggle room. 

His heats used to be an aimless lust that boiled and bubbled but never had a tangible target. Now… now Stiles knew what he wanted. He wanted Peter. He wanted to be free. He wanted to have a home defined by the people he traveled the world with and not a singular place. He wanted it so badly that even without the heat it was killing him.

The tremors began, tiny quakes in his body that would eventually turn into convulsions.

“Hey, Finstock?” Finstock looked up from the frayed piece of thread he’d been worrying between his fingers. “Thanks. You’re the best Caretaker.” Stiles smiled and his vision blurred. He hoped Finstock would think it was feverish glassy eyes and not unshed tears. “Without you this place… I think it would be unbearable.”

Instead of leaving with a strained smile like Finstock usually did, he sat on the mattress and gripped the sheets by Stiles’s shoulders in his fist. 

“The world doesn’t give you kids enough credit.” Finstock looked away until all Stiles’s could see was his cheek. “It’s not close to being fair. I had a—” He stopped abruptly and turned his body until it was just barely sitting on the bed. “I know how hard it can be.” 

He left and Stiles sighed with relief. 

He was unraveling, like a thread coming loose in a sea of blankets. Its was a small, trickling loss but it would add up over the days. 

Stiles closed his eyes. His entire body clenched painfully around _nothing_. He felt empty, so empty he was spiraling. His throat was tight and he kept relaxing for an Alpha that wasn’t there or coming for him. 

::::

Lydia crouched outside of Finstock’s quarters and waited for him to put out his candle. Erica had gone to sleep long ago but something kept Finstock awake. After what felt like hours he finally blew out the flame and Lydia moved to the far side of the Beacon. She carefully opened the door and slipped out into the freezing late-night-early-morning air. 

She had a lantern in her left hand and the brass knuckles on her right. She lit the lamp thirty paces out. Her breath sent snowflakes spinning away from her. She walked into the woods. 

The snow whispered under her slippers and sure enough, just on the edge of the property, a low moan crawled through the dark. Lydia paused and waited for another grunt. She set the lantern down and stood her ground as Peter Hale pulled himself toward her. 

“The—the fence—”

“We had an incident with an Alpha, as Stiles informed you, so we painted our fences with a wolfsbane sealant.” He rolled onto his back, his skin burned in several places. He squinted up at her. Lydia wondered if he realized how exposed he was as he laid still to heal. “How are feeling, Mr. Hale?”

“Better with every passing second.” When his eyes settled on the brass knuckles they flashed red. “Where is Stiles?”

The snow stung Lydia’s skin and the wind made the lantern’s flame flicker. 

“He’s safe.” Peter growled and tried to sit up only to collapse when his wounds reopened. Lydia kept out of his reach. “He isn’t afraid to die.” This time the snarl that left Peter had clumps of snow falling off the tress. “It’s too much trouble to sneak an Alpha onto the premises every six months to fuck him for a week before leaving until the next heat. He’d rather burn through this heat once than struggle for the rest of his life. I’m sure you can empathize with his situation.” 

Peter shook his head, his breaths heaving into the air in cloudy bursts. 

“No. That’s not what I want to give him. Lydia,” Peter’s eyes were still blood red when he met hers, “Stiles doesn’t belong here.” 

His lips were blue. She tightened her grip on the brass knuckles. 

“And you’re the one who’s going to take him away?”

The wind howled and blew the lantern out. 

::::

The sheets were soaked. His sense of balance left Stiles gradually until he felt like he was lost at sea and not restrained to a bed. If he kept his eyes closed he wouldn’t get nauseous from fact that nothing moved yet his body felt like it was on the world’s worst carnival ride. 

Stiles wasn’t sure how much time had passed since Finstock had left. He had a feeling he was still on the first day and already his heart ached with every beat. He felt razor-thin. He shuddered and he was sure it wouldn’t take five days, that at any moment he would burst to ash against the hot sheets and freezing air—

Freezing air?

Stiles opened his eyes to see snow drifting down from the skylight. For a moment all the pain stopped because… hallucinations were one of the few effects Stiles should _not_ be suffering from. Stiles inched forward on the bed and his eyes struggled to see if the skylight was open or broken—

A body dropped through and fell into a clumsy crouch. There was a light squeal of the hinges and the snow stopped falling just as Peter Hale stood and brushed himself off. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Let it be said that Stiles Stilinski would ruin any grandiose gesture. Peter smirked and Stiles drew his knees up to his chest. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?” 

“I told you,” Peter strode to the bed and idly ran his fingers along the soaked sheets. “I would come for your heat. Lydia helped me.” 

“ _Lydia_ helped you?” Peter nodded and a light knock on the skylight made Stiles look up. Sure enough, Lydia’s pale face was there before she disappeared. “She… Lydia brought you here?” 

“Not before she had me explain myself. If she hadn’t liked what she heard I’m certain she would have killed me.” She would have, Stiles knew this, and yet Peter hadn’t stopped smiling softly like they were flirting over drinks in some faraway bar with low lighting laced with smoke. “Do you know where you want to go first?”

Peter’s fingers touched his ankle. The small amount of contact smoothed over the dissonance in Stiles’s body. His heartbeat slowed and he could breathe much easier. Stiles licked his lips and the world wasn’t spinning. He was soaring. He smiled, wide and slightly unhinged, and Peter returned it in full. 

“China. I want to go to China—”

Peter’s claws tore through the restrains. When they kissed it was more of a press of teeth to skin. Peter’s eyes were red and his cock was heavy but Stiles couldn’t stop grinning. His claws cut Stiles’s straightjacket into ribbons and licked hot stripes up his chest. Even as Peter sucked and bit his nipples that had Stiles coming all over them with a hoarse shout, he smiled through it all. 

“Get _in_ me, come on!” Stiles laughed when Peter fumbled to push his own pants down. “I’m dying. Get in—”

Peter kissed him.

“You—I need to prep you.”

Prep was a fancy word for fingering Stiles within an inch of his sanity. Stiles would be annoyed if he couldn’t feel Peter’s uneven breaths and shaking hands. If they both lost their minds it was only fair. Stiles arched against the feeling of Peter’s fingers stretching inside him.

Peter shuddered and Stiles drew him in for a kiss just before Peter slid inside. Stiles’s shoulders hitched and he was finally complete. There was no other way to say it, to properly describe the calm that blessed his body at Peter’s cock finally sliding inside of him. 

Stiles’s legs hugged Peter’s hips. Peter kissed Stiles’s cheek. His knot swelled and bound them together. Distantly, Stiles realized that Peter whispered promises against Stiles’s skin.

He believed them. 

::::

John Stilinski’s legs were stiff when he stepped off the train at Penn Station. He had a single bag slung across his back and he followed the crowd. He searched the sea of faces until he saw Jordan Parrish. Parrish saw him and smiled and John stumbled because there was a _child_ in Parrish’s arms. He jogged over and the boy, who couldn’t be older than six years old, stared warily at John. 

“Who is he?” 

“ _Manners_ , Tommy.” Jordan mouthed a _sorry_ to John. “This is Sheriff Stilinski. He was my boss before you were born.” 

Tommy narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing a bemused John. 

 

“Okay.” The boy said it like he’d be the judge of John’s character. It made John smile despite the ache in his chest. Tommy slid from Jordan’s grasp, his arms crossed. “Can we go to the fish market now?” 

“Uh.” Jordan shot John a desperate look. “I think the Sheriff must be tired—”

“I don’t mind. Lead the way, kiddo.” 

Most of the officers John worked with wouldn’t consider visiting a former colleague as a vacation, especially one that took two days on a stuffy train just to get from California to New York. Sure, John was dizzy with exhaustion and the subways were loud and smelled like sweat and urine—but it was better than another day in an empty house. The vacations John took were numerous. Trips to the grocery store, overtime at the station, even speaking at school assemblies were escape from the silence of a house with no one in it. 

Parrish lamented that his apartment was small and that he wouldn’t want John to be uncomfortable. John would happily sleep on the floor if it meant hearing the hum of a family again. 

The market reeked of fish and salt water. It was by the docks and seagulls cawed overhead. Jordan had his usual spots even though John couldn’t fathom _how_ someone could have a _usual_ in such a crowded place. Jordan shouted over the noise to a weathered fisherman and as they struck up a bafflingly casual conversation about wives and dinner, Tommy shrieked. 

“Daddy—Daddy, look! The Hale Pack is _here_!” 

His tiny voice cracked and Tommy leapt up and down. Jordan turned, his eyes flickering to the docks as a ship pulled into the port. 

“I hate to ask this, Sheriff, but could you—”

“Of course.” John bent down on one knee and got Tommy’s attention. “I’ll get you closer but I think you’ll see more if you—”

Tommy climbed into John’s arms and swung his legs around John’s shoulders. His little hands gripped John’s head tight. 

“Go!” John and Jordan laughed. John waded through the crowds slowly. It was odd, holding a child again. John thought he’d forget how to be gentle, but it was like a day hadn’t passed. As if just yesterday Stiles was asking for piggyback rides and running around with Claudia as they plotted out worldwide trips over apple juice. John swallowed; suddenly glad that he couldn’t get any closer to the docks. “Aw, last time Dad got me closer.”

A few young men tied the ship to the dock and soon the Alpha jumped down. He was a tall man with a swagger that suited a pirate and not a respectable captain. His crew of Betas leapt off one by one, singing, laughing, and some dancing in their excitement to be on land again. 

“I want to be like them when I grow up.” Tommy declared. “I want to do what they do.” 

Later, John would find out more about the Hale explorers from Jordan and his wife. About their contributions to museums and mapping out the world one trip and ruin at a time. Later, Jordan would laugh and confess that they hoped their son would grow out of his obsessions. How could they just send their son away and rarely see him?

John would remember to smile. 

At that moment, however, John wasn’t even breathing because the Hale Alpha had spun one of the Betas around in a twirl and then kissed them as they laughed uproariously. It was a laugh that John _knew_. 

Any knowledge of an escaped Promised was to be immediately reported on. If it appeared that a Promised had run off with an Alpha—the two would be executed and there would be a scandalous national outcry.

The young man slung his arms around a blonde Beta girl and she leaned her head against his shoulder. The Alpha brought up the rear and the young man turned so they could share a glace. 

Their smiles softened. For a sliver in time it was like there was no one else but them, tucked away under the covers on a cold day. 

A few feet away there was an active officer on duty. All John had to do was shout and the law would be followed. The itch to _protect and serve_ boiled under his skin. 

John stood, frozen and he thought, between his quickening heartbeats, _Stiles has gotten so tall._

**Author's Note:**

> Welp, it seems like I'll rarely be able to write a one-shot under 10k. Yeesh. So this is my first ABO fic ever. Man, exposition for ABO is exhausting, I hope it was still enjoyable. 
> 
> Also, this is a gift for the lovely Mal. They've been so welcoming and this is my very belated thank you to them. 
> 
> Please, let me know what you think. All comments and criticisms welcome.


End file.
